Balls in the Air and Messy Faces

If you saw me at Smith’s today, you might think I’m completely together with angelic children and a plan that’s being executed exactly as I want. But, if you’d seen me at home yesterday–covered in baby spit up, not recently conversant with the shower, surrounded by screaming crazed beasts masquerading as my children, you might be tempted to call DCFS.

I had a brief conversation with the husband of a dear friend the other day where I got the distinct impression he was wishing his wife would weather their current scheduling trials (he’s the bishop of their ward) with more of something (patience, long-suffering, quiet insanity?) he seemed to believe I possessed. While I tried to disabuse him of this notion (ask DH for how badly I weather demands on his time), I have found myself thinking a lot about that conversation.

Several years ago, when I had fewer children and was still trying to hold together a somewhat demanding law practice, a friend asked me how I kept all the balls in the air. I laughed. I don’t keep all the balls in the air, I just try very hard to keep all my dropped balls hiding at home! Why is it we assume that everyone else is managing better than we are? Just because we can’t see their messes?

Another friend detailed to me recently her family’s scripture reading woes– she always seems so poised and peaceful and together to me. Why is it so refreshing to see that her family is real and struggling in all the same ways mine is? I loved DH’s somewhat startled response: I guess most people are doing the same things we’re doing and having as hard a time as we are.

I have somewhat of an obsession with messy faces. Here are some examples:




Perhaps I revel in the honesty of childhood–nothing, not even basic cleanliness, is going to keep most children from enjoying life. I’m trying to be more like them.